The old priest no longer answers his phone, he does not have voice mail, he does not have email. A few years go by, a few years then a few years more.
Once, when The Old Priest was first published, you did a reading at a Barnes and Noble in Philadelphia and former student X turned up, leering at you from the back of the room.
“This is great,” said former student X, coming forward after the reading to have his copy of the book signed. “This is absolutely fantastic.”
“Thanks. I guess my writing has finally come to something, though I’m not expecting much from this financially.”
“Does he know?”
“Who?”
“Who!”
“Oh, well, no. I’ve lost track of him, actually. He’s become fairly reclusive, it seems.” Then you looked at the book in former student Xs hand, the book jacket with its illustration taken from the Baltimore Catechism, the three milk bottles that illustrate the soul in its various states: the full milk bottle is the state of grace, the empty milk bottle is mortal sin, the milk bottle with some spot‘s in it is venial sin.
“Oh—oh, I see—you’re jumping to conclusions there, but of course I can see the impulse. I can definitely understand—”
“He mentioned you, you know,” said former student X. “Last time I was down there, in that terrible place in Baltimore. He was wondering why he never hears from you anymore.”
“Oh, was he, now? I’ll have to be sure and give him a call and tell him all about this, though of course the character of the old priest is a composite of a lot of priests I’ve known over the years. Some that are now in jail, actually!”
You broke into a loud, obnoxious laugh then moved to sign the flyleaf of your book for the next person in line.
That was the last time you saw former student X, thank God.